I’m still learning how to navigate Ramadan with a young child
Many of us multitask our worship alongside housework and childcare, so it’s difficult to find time to focus on spirituality
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As all parents know, there are few times when we can have quiet moments to ourselves, especially in early motherhood. Those minutes become even more precious during Ramadan, a time when we are meant to drown out all the noise of everyday life and look inwards. However, connecting to your spiritual self can be tricky when you have a child to care for.
I remember numerous times last Ramadan when my son pleaded for me to stop reading the Qur’an so I could play with him. That holy month I only managed to read up to Surah Ibrahim in the 14th chapter — not even half of the text. The year before that, I read even less.
For the past three years, I have finished each holy month filled with guilt for not having been able to perform the acts of worship I would have liked to. Last Eid al-Fitr I felt as if I had done nothing to deserve the celebration. Aside from the decorations in my living room, the live stream from Mecca on my TV and the dates my husband breaks his fast with (I don’t fast due to chronic illness), my life during Ramadan doesn’t change much from the usual day-to-day looking after my toddler.
But before I became a parent, I treated Ramadan as a spiritual bootcamp. I was also a personal trainer and approached the month much in the same way as I did a high-intensity workout. I threw my all at it, reading the entire Qur’an at least one-and-a-half times, attending taraweeh prayers most nights and performing qiyam al-layl during the last 10 nights. Somehow, I also retained my social life, joining friends and family for our iftar meal most evenings, or after taraweeh for an early suhoor meal.
That all changed after I had a baby. Parenting is so demanding that I have not had the luxury of pausing my routine to focus on my spirituality during the holy month. My husband and I can’t take our three-year-old along to the mosque with us and I’m not able to perform my taraweeh prayers at home because he takes hours to settle to sleep at night. By the time he does, I’m so exhausted I cannot keep my eyes open.
I do not have child-free time to spend in solitude and reflection, as one yearns to during the holy month. Many of us multitask our Ramadan worship alongside housework and childcare, yet it is an issue that neither my mother nor other women I know ever talk about. It appears to be accepted as one of the many sacrifices a Muslim mother must make during her lifetime and we remain silent because there’s a fear of coming across as ungrateful or as if we’re complaining.
Other Muslims try to placate me by saying I am still being rewarded by Allah, as taking care of my child is an act of worship. But I find this provides little comfort. Just like the cultural practice of serving the men first at iftar, I hope the attitude surrounding Muslim mothers will change. Yes, I am a mother with a responsibility to take care of my child, but as a Muslim I am also deserving and in need of time spent purely to connect with Allah.
Despite the challenge of having little time to myself, I still try to do what I can. This Ramadan, I am aiming to be less concerned with how much Qur’an I read per day and to look at it as a marathon and not a race, searching for little pockets of opportunity, such as when Ammar is playing with his toys.
I do my dhikr, or remembrance of Allah, when I am out walking with my son in his pram and I’ve stopped caring if people think I am talking to myself. At the end of the day when Ammar has finally settled down for the night, I can still raise my hands in du’aa to Allah, even if just for five minutes.
There have also been joyful parts of experiencing Ramadan as a first-time mum. My son and I have made decorations together and I’ve sung nasheeds to him. I am introducing him to the cultural traditions from my Middle Eastern heritage such as fawanees, the lanterns for children that light up and play music. This year, I am celebrating these small but significant pockets of joy, as I focus on what I am able to do in this moment, rather than mourning what I can’t.
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